


Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

by raven_maiden



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Big Dick Draco, But he gets an A for effort, Christmas Fluff, Couch Sex, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Jealousy, Oblivious Hermione Granger, Pining, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_maiden/pseuds/raven_maiden
Summary: The silence stretched. She finally found the courage to lift her eyes, and every inch of her body flared to life.Malfoy was staring at her like a man parched.**Hermione Granger is perfectly fine spending the holidays on her own, thank you very much. So when Draco Malfoy shows up on her doorstep and insists on joining her for the evening, there's only one possible explanation: the universe is trying to kill her.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 74
Kudos: 1128
Collections: Deck The Halls with Dramione





	Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for the Deck the Halls fest, hosted by the lovely [LadyKenz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347). Thank you so much for organizing, and for inviting me to be part of this event! 💕
> 
> I was paired with Two Pumpkin, who makes the most beautiful, adorably fluffy Dramione fanart. 😍Please follow her on [Tumblr](https://two-pumpkin.tumblr.com) and [Insta](https://www.instagram.com/two.pumpkin), and show her love for this heart-melting piece. 
> 
> Love to my duck [Lovesbitca8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovesbitca8)for helping me bounce plot ideas. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

If you asked Hermione Granger, being alone on Christmas was underrated. 

The quiet was relaxing. The lack of a mess was lovely. Being able to enjoy Chinese takeaway and spiked eggnog while wearing flannel pyjamas and sprawling out on one’s sofa was a pleasure few could boast of on Christmas. 

Hermione also was free to appraise her gifts frankly. No gushing was required when she unwrapped a lumpy jumper from Molly Weasley, or yet another quill set from Harry. She was free to wrinkle her nose at a smelly set of crystals from Luna, and to attempt to sharpen her chopsticks on one of Hagrid’s rock-hard fruitcakes. 

The award for the most creative gift went to Ginny Potter this year. Ginny had sent her a box filled with lacy knickers, along with headshots of several men she apparently played with on Puddlemere United. Her note read, “Pick your favorite, and let’s break that dry streak before New Year’s.” Rolling her eyes, Hermione tucked the photos into a nearby book. At least they’d make for entertaining placeholders. 

It was almost midnight when she finally closed her new book from Viktor, startling Crookshanks from her chest. She stood to go to her bedroom, but found herself drawn to the small Christmas tree across the room instead— the one she’d bought a few days ago, from the same Muggle farm she’d gone to every year as a child. 

It took her a few moments to realize what was bothering her. She’d placed a large bauble too high up on the tree. Pushing up on her tiptoes, Hermione plucked it off its branch, switching it with a smaller one. 

Memories rose up as she inhaled the familiar scent of pine. Drawing a shaky breath, she spun on her heel and headed to wash up, slipping beneath the covers and falling asleep in a matter of minutes. 

The next morning, Hermione woke before the dawn. She penned a stack of thank-you notes, took the Floo to Diagon Alley to post them, and spent an hour at Sainsbury’s. Once she was back in her flat, she flipped the television to the local sports channel. Not that she gave a fig about football, but her father had always said it didn’t feel like Boxing Day without it on. 

This time last year, she’d been at the Burrow, trying not to notice the way Ron looked at her while she bounced James Potter on her knee. She hadn’t been able to breathe until she’d opened the last of her presents and confirmed that none of them were an engagement ring. 

They’d broken up less than a month later. 

Even though she and Ron were finally on speaking terms again, Hermione had known better than to accept Molly and Arthur’s invitation to the Burrow for Christmas this year. 

“It’s not fair to Ron,” Hermione had insisted a few weeks ago, when Ginny and Harry tried to bully her into going. “Not when he’s bringing Emma.” 

And she’d meant it. She’d already cast a large enough shadow over Ron’s new relationship. She could handle a Christmas on her own. 

But as soon as she’d turned the Weasleys down, a flurry of invitations began arriving— from Neville and Hannah, Luna and Rolf, even Hagrid. Hermione had politely declined them all before owling to Harry and Ginny, letting them know that if she received one more invitation to Christmas, she’d hex them both with the same acne jinx she’d cast on Marietta Edgecombe their fifth year. 

She’d ended her letter with a compromise: if they stopped meddling, she’d host a small get-together on Boxing Day. A “second Christmas” of a sorts, filled with Muggle traditions and movies and food. Ginny replied that she wouldn’t be able to come due to her Quidditch schedule, but Harry had agreed. 

And so it had been decided. The guest list for this evening included Harry and a handful of Aurors Hermione considered work friends, including Angelina Johnson, Terry Boot, Seamus Finnigan, Alicia Spinnett, and Brigette Vance. 

And Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately. 

Of all the things Hermione appreciated the least about this year, Draco Malfoy’s inexplicable entrance into her weekly drinking circle topped the list.

Her Malfoy problem had begun in June, when he’d shown up with Harry at the Leaky Cauldron one Friday. He’d slipped into their overcrowded booth and ordered a pint, sipping coolly while Seamus glared at him and Angelina stared like he’d sprouted an extra head. 

An awkward hour later, when Hermione had followed Harry to the toilets to demand an explanation, she’d been met with a shrug. 

“He asked if he could come along. What was I supposed to do? Tell him no?” 

“Yes!” Hermione had hissed. “Clearly nothing good can be behind him showing up like this—” 

“Maybe.” Harry had scratched his jaw. “His birthday was yesterday, and I don’t think he gets out much. Maybe he just wanted some company.” 

Hermione had blinked, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Look. I know you haven’t been around him much since school, but he’s half-decent at work. Just this once, yeah?” 

Only it hadn’t been just once. To her dismay, Malfoy had kept joining them every Friday. Worse yet, each week seemed to be accompanied by a growing acceptance of his presence among the others— almost like budding _camaraderie_. He’d started saying more than a few sentences each week, and the group had even taken to laughing at his obnoxious quips. Last Friday, Seamus had actually asked where Malfoy was when he didn’t show. 

It was enough to give Hermione nightmares, but she’d lost her enthusiasm for complaining about it. The last time she’d gone on a Malfoy rant, insisting that the looks he always sent her were clearly meant to intimidate her, Harry had sighed and asked whether she was aware that Malfoy hadn’t spoken with his parents in three years. 

The sinking feeling in her gut had returned in full force. 

Since then, Hermione had grimly resigned herself to the fact that not only had she lost her boyfriend and the closest thing she had to a family this year, but she was also apparently being replaced by Draco Malfoy in the esteem of her oldest friend. And she was a bad person for resenting him for it. 

She was trying to be better, though. Really. She was proud that she’d managed to hold her tongue last week when Harry had sheepishly informed her that he’d invited Malfoy to their get-together “by accident”— apparently it had “just slipped out.” 

“It’s fine,” Hermione had told him, forcing a smile. “He’s welcome, of course.” 

Privately, she’d noted to herself that if Malfoy made a single snide remark about Christmas crackers, her cooking, or _A Christmas Carol_ , she’d be serving ferret for dinner. 

A swell of noise from the television startled her from her thoughts. Apparently someone had just scored. Hermione glanced at the clock above the fireplace— half-ten. Grimacing, she muted the shouting Muggle commentator, and got to work. 

By two in the afternoon, Hermione’s flat was sparkling clean. By four, the roast beef was in the oven. By five, she’d whipped up pigs in blankets that her Mum would have been proud of, and at half-six, she’d just dressed and reentered to the kitchen when Harry appeared in her fireplace, calling her name. 

Hermione rushed around the counter to meet him. 

“The Auror’s Office just called an emergency meeting,” said Harry, as soon as she came into view. “Apparently the bloody I.C.W. wants to move their Monday meeting to the Ministry over some bogus threat in Paris—” 

Hermione could barely make out the words as Harry rambled about security risks, and a mandatory meeting with the head of the D.M.L.E. and their international liaisons. 

“—all hands on deck situation,” he was saying. “I just sent an owl to Malfoy letting him know tonight is off.” His hand appeared in the flames to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Hermione, I’m so sorry—” 

“Don’t worry,” she said quickly. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine. I’m bloody furious right now—” 

“It’s really not a big deal. You were the one who badgered me into this, remember?” 

Harry’s expression was wretched. She gave him a bracing smile.

“Quit worrying and go. Owl me when you get home.”

Harry let out a slow exhale. “I’ll make it up to you, Hermione. I swear it—” 

“Go,” she said with a laugh, shooing him away. 

With a final, miserable look, Harry vanished. 

Hermione stood in front of the empty fireplace for a time, watching smoke curl up to the ceiling. Squaring her shoulders, she walked back to the kitchen and levitated the roast beef out of the oven. Then she dumped it into the rubbish bin. 

The Yorkshire Pudding was next, followed by the pigs in blankets, and Christmas pudding. She tossed the parsnips in by hand, rattling the bin until it was a steaming medley of textures and smells. 

She slammed the lid closed, her breath harsh as tears slid down her cheeks and slipped onto the polished floors. Then she wiped them away, reaching for her wand. 

There was a hollow pit in Hermione’s stomach as she cleared the table and sent pots and pans back into the cupboards. The sensation reminded her of being homesick, but it wasn’t the right word when she had nowhere else to go. No one else to go to. 

Her chest was still tight when she finished cleaning up. She grabbed a bottle of wine and headed towards her bedroom, intent on drowning her sorrows in bathwater and alcohol. 

A sharp knock from the entryway froze her. Perhaps Mrs. Jones had misplaced one of her cats again. 

She rushed to open the door, and her eyes popped when she cracked it open and found Draco Malfoy staring back at her. He was wearing a black hoodie, his hands tucked in his— jeans. His Muggle jeans. 

Her mouth opened, then closed. “Malfoy.” 

“Granger.” 

He narrowed his eyes over her shoulder, and when Hermione turned to see what he was looking at, he moved past her, swiftly entering her flat. 

She tried to command her brain to think as he looked around. 

“Your landing smells like cats.” Malfoy inhaled deeply. “Thankfully, your flat is an improvement,” 

Hermione slammed the door closed with a jolt. “What are you doing here.” 

“I’m here for the food. Obviously.” He wandered into her kitchen, examining the countertops. 

She felt her eye twitch. “You must have missed Harry’s owl. The Auror’s Office called an emergency meeting—” 

“Oh, I got it.” Malfoy paused to squint at her microwave. “But I’m an Investigator, not an Auror. Hence why I’m here for the food.” His eyes drifted to the rubbish bin. “Wherever it is.” 

“I don’t have any," said Hermione, lifting her chin. “I cancelled it.” 

Malfoy’s gaze flicked to hers. “Cancelled.” 

“Yes. Er— I’m really sorry, but you should probably go. Tonight was called off.” 

“What are you eating for dinner, then?” 

Hermione frowned, looking away. “Muggle takeaway, probably. But—”

“Excellent. I’ll have the same.” He crossed the room and took a seat on her sofa. “And I won’t say no to a glass of whatever you’re having.” 

She stared down at the bottle of wine in her hand.

“I also brought mead.” 

Hermione looked up to see Malfoy flick his wand, producing an expensive-looking bottle on the countertop. Her jaw went slack. 

He raised a brow, as if _she_ were the one acting strange. “No offense, Granger, but it’s polite to offer your guests a drink.”

Hermione blinked, jerking her head. “No one else is coming, Malfoy. You don’t have stay here out of— obligation, or whatever—” 

“I don’t do ‘obligation.’” He reached for the copy of the Prophet on her coffee table, and crossed his ankle over his knee. “As I said, I was promised food. Given that I could have made other arrangements tonight, I’ve come to collect.”

He shook the paper open with a flourish and began reading, like he was exactly where he was expected to be. Hermione stared daggers into his skull, and with that, they were in familiar territory. 

Grumbling, she trudged to the cupboards. Perhaps Malfoy had been hit with a curse that compelled him to pop up in the places he was least wanted. It would explain a lot, actually. 

She cast glances at him as she sifted through her wine choices, trying to decide which bottle would offend him the most. She was still half-tempted to throw him out, but the other half dreaded what Harry would say on Monday. There was also a bit of guilt at the idea of turning him away, if she were being honest with herself — and if she were being really, _really_ honest, she had to admit that there was a strange eagerness in her chest to interact with another human for more than a handful of seconds. Even if it was Malfoy. 

It had been almost a week since she’d really spoken with anyone. She’d have gone back to work for her fill, but her boss had threatened to ban her access to Level Nine if she didn’t use up the rest of her vacation days before the year’s end. 

Hermione settled on a cheap bottle of red burgundy. She popped the bottle open and poured two glasses. Then she moved to the couch and shoved one into Malfoy’s chest. “The wine was on clearance.”

Malfoy folded the paper carefully, setting it aside. “Fascinating.” He plucked the glass from her. 

“I’ll be ordering pizza.” 

“Fine.” 

“I like black olives.” 

“Alright.” His mouth twitched. “Anything else?” 

“Yes.” Hermione took a long swig of wine before speaking. “We’ll be watching _A Christmas Carol._ And if you have anything negative to say about Patrick Stewart’s acting, I’ll hex that smirk off your face.”

“Noted.” He sipped his wine, holding her gaze. 

“Right. I’ll just—” Her cheeks flushed, probably from the wine. Hermione spun on her heel, plucking the telephone off the kitchen counter and shuffling through the stained to-go menus. Then she dialed her local pizza shop, pretending she didn’t know the number by heart. 

The knock finally came after twenty minutes of stilted conversation and a glass and a half of wine. Hermione arched a brow when Malfoy stood to follow her, and he sat down again, his cheeks pink. 

She paid and tipped the Muggle delivery man before plopping back down on the sofa, conjuring a stack of napkins and paper plates, and filling her wine glass to the brim. 

“Bon appétit,” she said brightly. 

Malfoy glanced at her, but she was already shoving pizza into her mouth and turning on the DVD player. She dimmed the lights, and the movie began. 

He interrupted her exactly 60 seconds in. “What movie is this?”

“ _A Christmas Carol._ ” 

“You’re sure.”

Her head snapped to him. “You’re quizzing _me_ on Muggle Christmas movies?”

Malfoy said nothing. He reclined into the couch and took a bite of pizza, his jaw working quickly as he stared at the screen. 

They were sixty minutes in when Malfoy reached for the last slice. His hand froze for a split second before redirecting to the wine bottle. Hermione watched him refill his glass and take a sip, his eyes still transfixed on the screen. 

“Go for it.”

Malfoy glanced at her, and she nodded at the last slice. “I should have gotten a medium.” 

“I don’t want it.” He set his wine down, crossing his arms. “You take it.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Then she stood, pausing the movie. “I’m making popcorn.” 

*

Ten minutes later, the pan had just began popping on the cooktop, and Malfoy was behaving himself on the couch. 

She hoped. 

“Why’d you become an Unspeakable, Granger?”

Hermione jumped and spun around, clutching her heart. 

A smirk broke across Malfoy's face. Hermione scowled, turning back to the cooktop.

“Can’t say.” She tucked a curl behind her ear and rattled the pan. 

_Because I get to study the human mind_. _Including memory._

Malfoy shifted behind her, and kernels burst before her eyes. 

_Because I get to study_ _the origin of magic— where it comes from, and how it manifests._

 _Why Muggleborns exist, for instance._ _Or why some people have magic so powerful they can cast a memory charm on their parents that can’t be reversed._

When she turned around, Malfoy was still staring at her. She shrugged. “I’ve always been one for intellectual challenges. There are none greater than the ones in the Department of Mysteries.”

She shook the pan once more before turning off the cooker. “And you? Why are you an Investigator?” 

“Because they don’t want me in the field.” 

Her heart raced as she watched Malfoy walk back to the sofa and take a long sip of his wine. There were a dozen questions on her lips, but she didn’t know how to ask any of them. So she settled on melting the butter as she chewed the inside of her cheek. 

She’d just finished seasoning the popcorn and dumping it into a bucket when his voice rang out. 

“Why are there photos of Puddlemere United players in your book?” 

Hermione's blood ran cold. She grabbed the popcorn and rushed back into the living room. “They’re not mine, they’re Ginny’s. It’s a long story—” 

Malfoy sneered at the back of one of the photos. “‘A bit of a prick, but at least is rumored to have a large one.'” His lip curled. “Really, Granger?” 

Hermione bolted to the sofa, spilling popcorn on the floor as she yanked the book from his lap. She tore up the photos in a huff, tossing them in the rubbish bin.

There was a stilted pause. Hermione could feel the tips of her ears burning as she sat down again, staring straight ahead. 

“Ginny has made it her personal mission to interfere with my love life,” she finally managed. “Believe me, if I had any idea she’d written— inappropriate commentary on the back of those photos, I never would have kept them as bookmarks—” 

“You were using those as _b_ _ookmarks_?” 

“Please never mention it again.”

Hermione reached for her wine, drinking deeply as Malfoy laughed harder than she’d ever heard him laugh before. 

*

She woke up sometime later, wrapped up in something warm and pleasant. A group of people were singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in the background. 

Hermione’s eyes blinked open, and she found herself snuggled up against Draco Malfoy’s chest—his arm around her back, his hand on her hip. She shot upright, nearly upending the popcorn. 

Malfoy watched her scramble to the other side of the sofa. His face was impassive, but his posture was tense. 

“Why were we—” 

“You dozed off.” 

Hermione rubbed her eyes, glancing around the living room. The end of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ was playing on the television, and the clock above the fireplace read eleven. She’d been out for two hours, at least. 

She turned off the television and ran a hand through her curls. “Why didn’t you wake me.” 

“You seemed tired.” 

Hermione blinked, and looked down. Her red Christmas blouse was gone— it had been Transfigured into a gray hoodie. 

“You were shivering.” 

The silence stretched. She finally found the courage to lift her eyes, and every inch of her body flared to life. 

Malfoy was staring at her like a man parched.

Her heart began racing, heat blooming in her veins. “Why are you here, Malfoy.” 

The answer whispered to her like static in the air. 

He waited for two more heartbeats, and she felt like she was floating when he finally closed the distance between them and kissed her. 

He felt like fire to the touch. That was all Hermione could think about as she pushed back into the kiss, her tongue tangling with his as she ran her hands over every inch of him. It wasn’t enough, and the gasp that escaped from both of their throats when Malfoy’s fingers finally slipped beneath her hoodie made Hermione wonder if he felt just as desperate as she did. 

Her neck fell back as his lips traced a path down her jaw, sucking and nipping at her skin while she shivered. When he untwisted her bra and rolled her nipples, Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. 

“Off,” she gasped, and then Malfoy was tearing off her hoodie, and she was tearing off his, and they were collapsing back onto the sofa together.

His warmth consumed her, his hips moving against hers like they'd belonged there all along. Hermione was lost to the sensations, drunk on his taste and the feel of his bare chest, but then his mouth found her breasts and her eyes shot open. She whined as he licked and sucked at her, her hips writhing until she was begging for more. 

He paused around her left nipple, and it took another chorus of “mores” for him to break. Malfoy stood, tearing off her shoes as she scrambled to undo her jeans. He helped her rip them off, and gave her bare body a look so long and heated that she actually squirmed. She sat up to attack his jeans, and he dipped to capture her lips as she yanked them down his hips. 

She froze when she reached into his boxers and wrapped her hand around him. But before she could pull away to get a better look, his hand was slipping between her thighs and his fingers were gliding up to her clit. He swallowed her moans as he stroked her, circling and teasing until she was tugging him down and pleading for him to fuck her. 

She wrapped her legs around him, holding his eyes as he positioned himself. Then his forehead lowered to hers, and he kissed her softly as he pressed inside. 

Hermione’s eyes rolled back as he worked his way into her body, painting curses across her skin. He was too much— far too much— but it still wasn’t enough. She needed all of him, everything he had to give her, and the way he moaned when she lifted her hips and took the rest of him in a single stroke told her that maybe he felt the same. 

Her lips parted in a silent gasp, and she gripped his arms as she breathed through the pressure. Then she dipped her chin in a nod, and the heavy sigh that escaped him sent shivers across her skin. His forearms caged her face as he began moving inside her, stretching her into the shape of him.

Time stretched like a held note as they moved together. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, never breaking pace as she tugged at him, mewling. “Fucking perfect—” 

“Draco—” 

He shifted her hips, and her mouth fell open. The new angle caught her clit with each stroke, sending shockwaves down her limbs. She arched her back, cupping her breasts. 

“Draco, I need—” 

“ _Fuck_.” His pace grew deeper, jerkier. “So good, Hermione. So perfect on my cock—” 

She shuddered when his fingers pressed on her clit, her nipples pulling tight as he drove her higher, and higher. 

The cord snapped, and he cursed as her cunt clamped down on him. Hermione keened as heat rippled through her, her toes curling and muscles clenching. She was half-blind from the pleasure as Draco pounded into her, groaning as his hips slammed to a halt. 

He collapsed on top of her, his cock twitching and his heart thrumming against hers.

They caught their breath together, their limbs tangled and bodies slick. Hermione whimpered when more of Draco's weight slipped on her, and he flipped them over with a grunt. 

Her eyelids fluttered closed as he threaded his fingers in her hair, soothing her scalp. She pressed her ear against his chest, counting his heartbeats. 

“Tell me why you’re here,” she said. 

“The same reason I force myself to suffer through Potter’s company every Friday.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

His head raised an inch. “I’m not lying—” 

“I know you like me." Feeling bold, she laced her fingers through his. "But you like Harry, too. I can tell.” 

He scoffed, but didn’t argue.

“Tell me something true.” 

Draco’s thumb brushed her knuckles in the silence. 

“I watched _A Christmas Carol_ before I came over.” 

She went very still. “Why?” 

“I wanted to impress you.” 

The words slipped beneath her skin, filling the place that had been empty with something warm. Something that felt like home. 

Hermione closed her eyes again, willing the clock above the fireplace to stop ticking— willing the minutes and hours to pause so she could live in this moment without thinking of the one he would inevitably be taken away from her. 

“I wish you would have told me,” she finally said. “I could have put something different on.”

“I liked it. Besides, I didn’t really see this one.” She could hear the frown in his voice. “I asked my aunt about it yesterday, and she put it on for me. But there were furry creatures, and singing—” 

Hermione jerked her chin up. “Your aunt had you watch _The Muppet Christmas Carol?_ ”

His eyes glinted. “The Muppets! That's it. Couldn’t remember the name for the life of me—” 

Hermione burst out laughing, slapping a hand over her mouth as he smirked at her. She couldn’t even be arsed to care about how ridiculous she must look, or the mess on the sofa when he slipped free. 

She had to wipe away tears from her eyes when she finally settled back on his chest, her cheeks still sore. But then her gaze drifted to the clock again, and her smile faded. 

“You're up, Granger.” Malfoy stretched a hand behind his head. “Tell me something true.” 

Hermione swallowed, closing her eyes. Then she pushed up on her elbows.

His gaze was liquid silver, his pale hair shining in the low light— the same color as one of the angels her mother used to decorate the Christmas tree with. Hermione brushed a lock from his face. 

“I want you to stay.” 

A smile tugged at his mouth, and he gripped her chin as he pressed his lips to hers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Kudos and comments are love and encouragement. 💖


End file.
